


In Sickness and Health

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 23:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When you love someone, Sherlock," John replied, feeling more than a little sad now, "You start to want to do things for them so they feel better."</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Sickness and Health

**Author's Note:**

> I had such fun writing this. My best friend Miranda (who is the most luminous conductor of light in existence) and I had a conversation once about what a terror sick!Sherlock would be, and this, months later, is my response. Enjoy!
> 
> The amazing slashermoonlight translated this fic into Vietnamese! I don't personally speak the language, but it looks super cool. Thank you so much, slashermoonlight! You're amazing!
> 
> You can read the translated fic here: http://slashermoonlight.wordpress.com/2012/12/25/in-sickness-and-health/

John knew something was wrong when he slept through the entire night and woke, well-rested, to the sound of birds chirping outside his window instead of some new depressing concerto or the like. If he had slept without interruption, then the interrupter must have slept as well, and that wasn't as happy a deduction as one would think at first glance.

John glanced at the clock. It read 9:30, and on a Saturday, this was near miracle. John slipped on his slippers and made his way down the hall.

"'Lock? You up?" John whispered near Sherlock's door.

There was no answer.

John, feeling trepidatious and guilty, eased the door open and was met with the sight of Sherlock's bear pit of a room—all his things were strewn everywhere, as per usual, and it calmed John somewhat to see this sign of normalcy.

What was resting in the middle of Sherlock's bed, however, was very worrisome indeed.

Sherlock was curled up in the exact center (like he'd measured it with a ruler), the blankets coiled around him in a nest—but a cold sweat had beaded up on the back of his neck and John realized his ominous feeling had been correct: if Sherlock was sick, then the day would not be happy in the slightest.

* * *

At first, Sherlock insisted nothing was wrong. He stumbled out of bed when John finally woke him at eleven, merely insisting he'd been seeing how long he could actually sleep as an experiment. His excuse was very thin, though, and he knew it, so he made efforts to change the subject whenever John tried to bring it up.

"Any text from Lestrade?" Sherlock finally asked, already in his coat, shivering, instead of his customary dressing gown.

"Hmm. Apparently there's been a murder, but Lestrade thinks he's on it already. He's probably wrong, but still. Not really worth your time." John studied Sherlock's face, and found a little relief there at John's excuse for him to stay sitting.

"He's almost definitely wrong," Sherlock said at last, but made no move to get up.

"You look sick, Sherlock," John mentioned, bracing himself for the inevitable lashing out of Sherlock's temper.

Sherlock opened his mouth.

He closed it.

"I feel fine," he muttered, stood a little shakily and got dressed in double the amount of time it had taken him yesterday.

* * *

Sherlock was of little use on the actual crime scene. He stumbled about, muttered and grumbled his deductions incomprehensibly, snapping at Donovan and Anderson in a way that was unwarranted, even for him.

"What's wrong with him?" Lestrade whispered to John as Sherlock tapped furiously on his phone, eyes glassy. "Is he on some weird drug?"

"Nah," John whispered back. "He's got the flu or something. Woke up at eleven in the morning today."

"Crikey!" Lestrade exclaimed, causing Sherlock to look up from his work, scowling. "Sorry, sorry!" he interjected, panicked, before Sherlock could bite his head off.

Sherlock shook his head and bent over the body again.

"Take him home," Lestrade hissed, quietly, looking at Sherlock with something akin to horror. "Sorry to make you deal with him, though."

"Don't worry about it," John sighed. "I'm used to it."

John walked over to where Sherlock was muttering to himself over the body. "C'mon, 'Lock. I'm taking you home."

Sherlock glowered at John, straightening his back. "Why? Do you think I'm incapable? I'm in perfect condition to work!"

John looked at him incredulously.

"I've never felt better!" Sherlock insisted, but he belied his answer with a violent sneeze.

"C'mon," John sighed, exasperated, and took him by the elbow to march him out the door, Sherlock's weak protestations falling behind them.

* * *

"I'm dying, aren't I."

"What? No, Sherlock, you've a fever. That's all."

"…You're not supposed to lie to your patients, Doctor Watson."

"You're not dying! You just…feel like it."

"Yes I am! I'm… I'm reporting you for… John, I feel miserable."

"I know. Just rest."

* * *

The next morning—well, if three can be considered the morning—John was woken by the sound of Sherlock thundering to the bathroom so he didn't vomit on the floor. John jumped up immediately, racing into the bathroom, and found Sherlock sitting weakly on the tiles, cheek resting against the porcelain edge of the tub. He stood there for a moment, pity welling up in his chest, but then he filled a little paper cup with some water and knelt to hand it to Sherlock.

"Drink it in sips," he heard himself saying, doctor training taking over. "You don't want to overwhelm your stomach more than it already is." Sherlock nodded, and sipped. John sat on the edge of the tub, and his hand stroked Sherlock's curls away from his forehead the way his mum used to when he was a kid. He'd always loved it when his mum would do stuff like that—she wasn't an affectionate woman, and it'd been nice to be reminded that she cared.

John never wanted Sherlock to doubt that he cared.

* * *

In the real morning, John let Sherlock sleep until noon. When the midday came, however, John made him get up and nibble on some dry crackers so he could take his meds on a less-empty stomach.

"There's one thing I don't understand," Sherlock asked once the ibuprofen had begun to ease away his headache, "And that's why you're standing here at my beck and call when there're surely more important things you should be doing."

"And what would that be?" John asked, feeling a little sad, "Dealing with more sick people? It's what I do, Sherlock."

"But you don't get them little cups of water or help them down the stairs or make them drink tea in the morning, John," Sherlock pressed. "You tell them what's wrong so they can go do those things for themselves."

"When you love someone, Sherlock," John replied, feeling more than a little sad now, "You start to want to do things for them so they feel better."

This answer seemed to genuinely startle Sherlock.

"You—love me," Sherlock repeated, and the word sounded foreign coming from his mouth.

"Of course I do," John said, and turned around to pour some tea so Sherlock didn't see the mist that was forming in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said.

"I'm not," John replied, and patted Sherlock's shoulder once before heading up the stairs, mug in hand. "Holler if you need something."

* * *

"What do you want for dinner?" John asked, realizing both of them were pretending that their previous conversation had never occurred. "We could have Chinese, Mexican, Italian…" John trailed off. Sherlock's eyes were narrowed, focusing on John's face with an intensity that John wasn't sure he liked.

"Why do you care?" Sherlock asked. "Why do you ask what I want to eat? Or how I'm feeling, or if I sleep, or whatever?" He crossed his arms over his chest, goose bumps standing out on his pale skin.

"Because you're my friend," John answered. He leaned his chin in the cupped palm of one hand. "And I love you."

"Why?" Sherlock exclaimed in exasperation. "What could I have possibly done that would make you—feel like that about me?"

"Do you really not know?" John whispered. "Don't you know that you took me in when I was at my worst and made me something like the best I've ever been?" John searched Sherlock's face helplessly. "I was so lost, Sherlock, so lonely, and you made me feel like I had a place in the world again. You can—you can tell me that you don't feel the same, and that's okay, I just—please don't tell me to stop. I don't think I could." John looked at his hands in his lap—he couldn't bear to look at Sherlock's face.

Hands as cold as ice were suddenly on his cheeks. John looked up in surprise, but before he could say anything, Sherlock kissed his forehead.

"Don't—don't stop. Please," he mumbled.

"Okay," John whispered, eyes wide.

"Italian sounds lovely, anyway," Sherlock said in his normal voice and dropped his head into John's lap. "Call Mycroft to drop it off—I have no intention of getting up and your leg is an adequate pillow."

"Okay," John said again, and ran his fingers through Sherlock's soft curls. A smile tugged at his mouth.

"I believe there's a Doctor Who rerun marathon on in three minutes, if you'd care to turn on the telly," Sherlock offered, making John's smile widen. "I promise I won't tell you the ending this time."

"Sometimes I can't tell if you're actually deducing things or if you've just got them all memorized." John flicked the side of Sherlock's head.

"The remote is right next to you," Sherlock replied loftily. John snickered under his breath.

* * *

John knew everything was back to normal when he heard the sound of the violin at five in the morning. This made him smile; Sherlock was playing one of John's favorite tunes.

Upon full wakefulness, he realized that Sherlock had thrown his coat over his shoulders in the middle of the night. The wool collar was scratching his chin, but that was okay—the gesture shocked him in a pleasant way. Probably Sherlock had forgotten where the extra blankets were kept.

The day hadn't quite dawned yet, but John knew it would be a good one. Probably he and Sherlock would sprint all across town and laugh at Lestrade, laugh at Anderson and Donovan, laugh at the idiotic world they lived in.

John nestled deeper under Sherlock's coat.

He loved it when Sherlock laughed.


End file.
